selected prose of oscar wilde-第7章

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answered　that　he　had　contemplated　none　of　these　things；　but　had

concerned　himself　simply　with　certain　arrangements　of　lines　and

masses；　and　with　new　and　curious　colour…harmonies　of　blue　and　green。

And　it　is　for　this　very　reason　that　the　criticism　which　I　have

quoted　is　criticism　of　the　highest　kind。　　It　treats　the　work　of　art

simply　as　a　starting…point　for　a　new　creation。　　It　does　not　confine

itselflet　us　at　least　suppose　so　for　the　momentto　discovering

the　real　intention　of　the　artist　and　accepting　that　as　final。　　And

in　this　it　is　right；　for　the　meaning　of　any　beautiful　created　thing

is；　at　least；　as　much　in　the　soul　of　him　who　looks　at　it；　as　it　was

in　his　soul　who　wrought　it。　　Nay；　it　is　rather　the　beholder　who

lends　to　the　beautiful　thing　its　myriad　meanings；　and　makes　it

marvellous　for　us；　and　sets　it　in　some　new　relation　to　the　age；　so

that　it　becomes　a　vital　portion　of　our　lives；　and　a　symbol　of　what

we　pray　for；　or　perhaps　of　what；　having　prayed　for；　we　fear　that　we

may　receive。The　Critic　as　Artist







DANTE　THE　LIVING　GUIDE







There　is　no　mood　or　passion　that　Art　cannot　give　us；　and　those　of　us

who　have　discovered　her　secret　can　settle　beforehand　what　our

experiences　are　going　to　be。　　We　can　choose　our　day　and　select　our

hour。　　We　can　say　to　ourselves；　'To…morrow；　at　dawn；　we　shall　walk

with　grave　Virgil　through　the　valley　of　the　shadow　of　death；'　and

lo！　the　dawn　finds　us　in　the　obscure　wood；　and　the　Mantuan　stands　by

our　side。　　We　pass　through　the　gate　of　the　legend　fatal　to　hope；　and

with　pity　or　with　joy　behold　the　horror　of　another　world。　　The

hypocrites　go　by；　with　their　painted　faces　and　their　cowls　of　gilded

lead。　　Out　of　the　ceaseless　winds　that　drive　them；　the　carnal　look

at　us；　and　we　watch　the　heretic　rending　his　flesh；　and　the　glutton

lashed　by　the　rain。　　We　break　the　withered　branches　from　the　tree　in

the　grove　of　the　Harpies；　and　each　dull…hued　poisonous　twig　bleeds

with　red　blood　before　us；　and　cries　aloud　with　bitter　cries。　　Out　of

a　horn　of　fire　Odysseus　speaks　to　us；　and　when　from　his　sepulchre　of

flame　the　great　Ghibelline　rises；　the　pride　that　triumphs　over　the

torture　of　that　bed　becomes　ours　for　a　moment。　　Through　the　dim

purple　air　fly　those　who　have　stained　the　world　with　the　beauty　of

their　sin；　and　in　the　pit　of　loathsome　disease；　dropsy…stricken　and

swollen　of　body　into　the　semblance　of　a　monstrous　lute；　lies　Adamo

di　Brescia；　the　coiner　of　false　coin。　　He　bids　us　listen　to　his

misery；　we　stop；　and　with　dry　and　gaping　lips　he　tells　us　how　he

dreams　day　and　night　of　the　brooks　of　clear　water　that　in　cool　dewy

channels　gush　down　the　green　Casentine　hills。　　Sinon；　the　false

Greek　of　Troy；　mocks　at　him。　　He　smites　him　in　the　face；　and　they

wrangle。　　We　are　fascinated　by　their　shame；　and　loiter；　till　Virgil

chides　us　and　leads　us　away　to　that　city　turreted　by　giants　where

great　Nimrod　blows　his　horn。　　Terrible　things　are　in　store　for　us；

and　we　go　to　meet　them　in　Dante's　raiment　and　with　Dante's　heart。

We　traverse　the　marshes　of　the　Styx；　and　Argenti　swims　to　the　boat

through　the　slimy　waves。　　He　calls　to　us；　and　we　reject　him。　　When

we　hear　the　voice　of　his　agony　we　are　glad；　and　Virgil　praises　us

for　the　bitterness　of　our　scorn。　　We　tread　upon　the　cold　crystal　of

Cocytus；　in　which　traitors　stick　like　straws　in　glass。　　Our　foot

strikes　against　the　head　of　Bocca。　　He　will　not　tell　us　his　name；

and　we　tear　the　hair　in　handfuls　from　the　screaming　skull。　　Alberigo

prays　us　to　break　the　ice　upon　his　face　that　he　may　weep　a　little。

We　pledge　our　word　to　him；　and　when　he　has　uttered　his　dolorous　tale

we　deny　the　word　that　we　have　spoken；　and　pass　from　him；　such

cruelty　being　courtesy　indeed；　for　who　more　base　than　he　who　has

mercy　for　the　condemned　of　God？　　In　the　jaws　of　Lucifer　we　see　the

man　who　sold　Christ；　and　in　the　jaws　of　Lucifer　the　men　who　slew

Caesar。　　We　tremble；　and　come　forth　to　re…behold　the　stars。The

Critic　as　Artist







THE　LIMITATIONS　OF　GENIUS







The　appeal　of　all　Art　is　simply　to　the　artistic　temperament。　　Art

does　not　address　herself　to　the　specialist。　　Her　claim　is　that　she

is　universal；　and　that　in　all　her　manifestations　she　is　one。

Indeed；　so　far　from　its　being　true　that　the　artist　is　the　best　judge

of　art；　a　really　great　artist　can　never　judge　of　other　people's　work

at　all；　and　can　hardly；　in　fact；　judge　of　his　own。　　That　very

concentration　of　vision　that　makes　a　man　an　artist；　limits　by　its

sheer　intensity　his　faculty　of　fine　appreciation。　　The　energy　of

creation　hurries　him　blindly　on　to　his　own　goal。　　The　wheels　of　his

chariot　raise　the　dust　as　a　cloud　around　him。　　The　gods　are　hidden

from　each　other。　　They　can　recognise　their　worshippers。　　That　is　all

。　。　。　Wordsworth　saw　in　Endymion　merely　a　pretty　piece　of　Paganism；

and　Shelley；　with　his　dislike　of　actuality；　was　deaf　to　Wordsworth's

message；　being　repelled　by　its　form；　and　Byron；　that　great

passionate　human　incomplete　creature；　could　appreciate　neither　the

poet　of　the　cloud　nor　the　poet　of　the　lake；　and　the　wonder　of　Keats

was　hidden　from　him。　　The　realism　of　Euripides　was　hateful　to

Sophokles。　　Those　droppings　of　warm　tears　had　no　music　for　him。

Milton；　with　his　sense　of　the　grand　style；　could　not　understand　the

method　of　Shakespeare；　any　more　than　could　Sir　Joshua　the　method　of

Gainsborough。　　Bad　artists　always　admire　each　other's　work。　　They

call　it　being　large…minded　and　free　from　prejudice。　　But　a　truly

great　artist　cannot　conceive　of　life　being　shown；　or　beauty

fashioned；　under　any　conditions　other　than　those　that　he　has

selected。　　Creation　employs　all　its　critical　faculty　within　its　own

sphere。　　It　may　not　use　it　in　the　sphere　that　belongs　to　others。　　It

is　exactly　because　a　man　cannot　do　a　thing　that　he　is　the　proper

judge　of　it。The　Critic　as　Artist







WANTED　A　NEW　BACKGROUND







He　who　would　stir　us　now　by　fiction　must　either　give　us　an　entirely

new　background；　or　reveal　to　us　the　soul　of　man　in　its　innermost

workings。　　The　first　is　for　the　moment　being　done　for　us　by　Mr。

Rudyard　Kipling。　　As　one　turns　over　the　pages　of　his　Plain　Tales

from　the　Hills；　one　feels　as　if　one　were　seated　under　a　palm…tree

reading　life　by　superb　flashes　of　vulgarity。　　The　bright　colours　of

the　bazaars　dazzle　one's　eyes。　　The　jaded；　second…rate　Anglo…Indians

are　in　exquisite　incongruity　with　their　surroundings。　　The　mere　lack

of　style　in　the　story…teller　gives　an　odd　journalistic　realism　to

what　he　tells　us。　　From　the　point　of　view　of　literature　Mr。　Kipling

is　a　genius　who　drops　his　aspirates。　　From　the　point　of　view　of

life；　he　is　a　reporter　who　knows　vulgarity　better　than　any　one　has

ever　known　it。　　Dickens　knew　its　clothes　and　its　comedy。　　Mr。

Kipling　knows　its　essence　and　its　seriousness。　　He　is　our　first

authority　on　the　second…rate；　and　has　seen　marvellous　things　through

keyholes；　and　his　backgrounds　are　real　works　of　art。　　As　for　the

second　condition；　we　have　had　Browning；　and　Meredith　is　with　us。

But　there　is　still　much　to　be　done　in　the　sphere　of　introspection。

People　sometimes　say　that　fiction　is　getting　too　morbid。　　As　far　as

psychology　is　concerned；　it　has　never　been　morbid　enough。　　We　have

merely　touched　the　surface　of　the　soul；　that　is　all。　　In　one　single

ivory　cell　of　the　brain　there　are　stored　away　things　more　marvellous

and　more　terrible　than　even　they　have　dreamed　of；　who；　like　the

author　of　Le　Rouge　et　le　Noir；　have　sought　to　track　the　soul　into

its　most　secret　places；　and　to　make　life　confess　its　dearest　sins。

Still；　there　is　a　limit　even　to　the　number　of　untried　backgrounds；

and　it　is　possible　that　a　further　development　of　the　habit　of

introspection　may　prove　fatal　to　that　creative　faculty　to　which　it

seeks　to　supply　fresh　material。　　I　myself　am　inclined　to　think　that

creation　is　doomed。　　It　springs　from　too　primitive；　too　natural　an

impulse。　　However　this　may　be；　it　is　certain　that　the　subject…matter

at　the　d